There's Something Wrong with Me, Dad

So I was facing and getting through a huge pile of dishes and pots this morning. A huge skillet in which I'd cooked three days worth of chicken legs for Boots the Blind Wonderdog and little Stella, a cute pup who came with my friend Yelena, seriously ill with cancer, to stay at my house last month. Then there were the pots in which I'd cooked elements of last night's stuffed manicotti (the spinach and garlic pan, the sausage pot, the zuccini pot, the pyrex dish in which the manicotti went, the pot in which I'd made the tomato sauce and so forth. Then the actual dishes, glasses and silverware attendant to that meal. Then there were Yelena's extra things--maybe eight glasses and cups and a couple bowls of left overs. Madeleina had threatened to wash it all this morning but didn't. Still, as she walked out of Yelena's room with the cups, glasses and bowls (which were in addition to her plate from the manicotti which she had while we all watched Seinfeld reruns), Madeleina noted: "Dad, I'm sorry I didn't do the dishes. I really should have."
   "You're not sorry, Madeleina. You had no intention of doing the dishes."
   "You're right. And it's the easiest thing to do. You're going right through them...but still, what's wrong with me that I just won't do housework?"
   "I think it's called teenage-itis..."
   "No, I'm serial, daddy-o. Something is just wrong with me. Of course, if something is wrong with the child you can bet it's the parent's fault. So way to go, dad. You messed me up. Why'd you do that? And look what you get for doing it: You have to clean the whole house and do the laundry and cut the lawn--karma, dad. It's a beotch, isn't it? If you ever have more kids, try not to screw up so badly, okay?"